


Comfort

by lachlanrose



Series: Serendipity [4]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Rogan, Smut, adult, shipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachlanrose/pseuds/lachlanrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even the strongest hearts need to be carried. The Wolverine needs. The Rogue gives. W/R</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You know, there’s times I bet they wish they were mine! heh. 
> 
> Feedback: You bet. I welcome it all. The good. The bad. The ugly… Flames, however, will be washed down with a big shot of BiteMe and publicly mocked. 
> 
> Author’s notes: This one is another story in the Serendipity universe. I thought it was about time Marie had a turn driving the train. As usual, this one is adult in theme and content. (Duh!) Thanks to the awesome Doctorg for the super speedy post-holiday beta. Onward.

 

**Comfort**

' _In love the smallest distance is too great and the greatest distance can be bridged.'_

 

**~ooOoo~**

 

When the phone rang, I was surprised by the voice on the other end. It always makes me smile when Logan calls, but there was an edge to his tone I'd never heard from him before. Not sarcasm. Not pain. Not desire.

Need.

It colored his every word. Even the way he expressed himself was different. He seemed distracted. On edge. Pleasant enough but slow to respond where his dry wit is usually too fast for me to keep up with, and when he did speak, his responses were short, even for him. Clipped. Strange for a man who was rarely at a loss for words, however irascible and surly they might be. He was more direct than he'd ever been with me, and more detached. But what I most noted was his lack of inflection. Everything was so flat. Not even one chuckle as we played at making small talk.

I had the sense that the only reason he spoke at all was to give me a sense of where he was in his mind so he wouldn't have to verbalize what he needed from me and I wouldn't have to ask such a graceless question of him. To be honest, I'm not sure he would have been able to answer a direct: _'What do you need?'_. Not with the way he was feeling. Not if I threw it out there like that. And I wouldn't ask it, wouldn't put him on the spot when he was so vulnerable. I wouldn't force him to state so baldly that he needed as intimate a thing as he needed from me that night.

No, I didn't ask... but it was couched in my every word to him and I listened to how he spoke, listened to what he said and how he said it. Listened to what he _didn't_ say. Small talk. It was a conversation about nothing and yet he gave away so much. In minutes I knew what he wanted. No, that's not right. In minutes I knew what he _needed_.

And to be honest, it scared me a little. Not because of who he was or because he trusted me enough to show me such vulnerability — or even because he had more experience than I did. It frightened me because he's always led the intimacy between us and now he needed me to lead. In truth, he didn't need to be led as much as he needed to be carried. I was afraid of letting him down... even as my most desperate wish was to find it within myself to give him what he needed.

The more he talked, the more I became aware of just how bad off he was. The kind of work we do, well it's not exactly the nine-to-five kinda gig, but outside active missions, even I see red flags go up when he's at it in the small, predawn hours. He's not the 'work late at the office' sorta guy. He was calling from one of the safe houses Charles had set up in the city, conveniently hidden in a highrise office complex. A place that we could work out of that couldn't be traced back to the school. Picking between the pleasantries, strung all together, what he didn't say was incredibly revealing.

_Me: How are you?  
_ _Him: Better now, kid._

_Me: So what are you up to tonight?  
_ _Him: Drinkin'. Workin'._

We spoke a little more. He spun a very simple fantasy. Just a few words, really. Allusions. Illusions. A man at work. A secretary. A dress code. A short skirt. No panties.

_Me: A dress code? Were you hoping I'd break the rules?  
_ _Him: No. I kinda need the no panties bit._

_Me: Need it? Interesting.  
_ _Him: Mmph._

_Me: I love you in that mood.  
_ _Him: Then you'll adore me just now. I needta get my mind off things that can go wrong. Tell me somethin' good. Clean. Sweet..._

That was the most words he'd strung together all night. And it was as close as he would come to telling me what he actually needed. Just hearing it said so plainly gave me the courage to be as equally revealing with him. I was already in my car and pulling onto the freeway before he even hung up.

 

**~ooOoo~**

 

He looks so tense, slumped there in the chair, watching me move towards him. I pour him a drink and then gather the rest of files spread over the desk to get them out of the way so I can wrap my arms around him from behind and let him feel the soft press of my body. I don't want his attention drawn back to whatever nightmare he's plowing through while I try to relax him by massaging the knots from his neck. It's gotta be bad to get him like this. Some kinda lab, probably. Experiments on kids. We don't run across that sort of information often, but he takes it real personal when we do.

He grunts softly as I work the tension from his neck and shoulders... but I know it's not the touch he wants. I'm sorry for that but I need a moment to gather myself. I know I can't do this in half measures. His need is too great. Under my fingers, his muscles are stiff. He has a lot on his plate but I know right now he needs to have only one thing on his mind.

He has only one kind of need tonight... and it has to do with naked skin under an obscenely short green skirt. He needs to feel and not think. To lose himself in sensation so he can find himself on the other side. _It's okay. I know._ _Shhh... I'm here._ _I'm here now. I won't let you go._ I croon to him within the confines of my own head and let my touch speak for me. His mind is fragmented. He needs me to shatter him tonight because he trusts that I'll be there to pick up the pieces. Make him whole again so that he can do whatever life will require of him when the new day dawns.

Hands on his skin. Mouth on his neck. My body in his lap. He asked for something clean and sweet. "See the window? It's started snowing. Not enough to make it a pain to get home... but it's pretty." Snow in the city is only clean when it's in the sky, and thankfully, this office is high enough up that it's still white and sparkly as it floats down past the window. Soft and light. It's pretty, but what I want most is for him to get caught up in the hypnotic quality of it. It's the visual equivalent of white noise.

I have the sense that asking him to simply close his eyes will only make him more jumpy; that he will see things there he doesn't need to be seeing just now. In this moment, I want the only sensory input he receives from me to be physical so I whisper to him to watch the snow while I take off my top and push the layers of denim and flannel off his shoulders, revealing the white tank underneath so I can kiss that spot on his neck I know gets to him so good.

I feel as if I'm walking a fine line. This is not a seduction. I don't want to tease him but I do want to slow his racing mind and tense body, to bring him from chaos into my slower, gentler rhythm. I'm pretty much a novice when it comes to this, but I realize I need to get him to relax first for him to accept what I want to give him tonight. I know he doesn't have the mental energy to do anything but let me lead this time. I notice he didn't even have the energy to raise the glass I brought him to his lips. I know he needs that too. Tonight he needs assistance letting go. The drink will help. So will the touch of a woman.

I'm unsure of myself and I blush a little as I take the glass from where it's been resting untouched in his fingers, but I know I need to find a trigger, something to switch him from the mental to the physical. It's hard, but I listen to that little voice inside me, guiding my actions even though I'm hesitant. I do my best not to let it show as I bring the glass to my mouth. The fiery liquor burns my lips and tongue for the few moments I hold it in my mouth before I pass it to him in an intimate kiss. He will not drink from the glass but he will drink from me.

He says nothing to me but his eyes tell me he likes it that way. That he likes that I've read him well enough to see he needed that. They also tell me that he's feeling a rush that seems to be more about the woman in his lap than the drink in his belly. I've won only the smallest of battles. Still, I don't pause and rest on my laurels. I keep going until the generously filled tumbler is empty... but between sips shared from my mouth to his, I've undressed us both until we are bare from the waist up. Naked breast to naked breast.

I feel him sigh, and for the first time tonight, I begin to feel him relax under me. I touch him slowly— again, not to tease but to keep from jarring him out of the slower rhythm he's found with me. My hands touch every inch of his bare flesh; his face, his shoulders and chest, his sides and stomach. I touch myself, too. Not lewdly. Sensually. Moving against his lap slowly as I stroke my throat and cup my breasts for him, kneading them as he would do if he had the energy to lift his hands from where they are resting on my hips.

His eyes get darker, more hooded as he watches me. There is a question in them too. He feels the moment, as I do. He's wondering if he's ever cared more for me than in this moment when he's feeling the way he does tonight. It's different than any other time we've ever made love. Different than the kinky games we've played. This feels comfortable and comforting... in more than just a sexual way.

If it wasn't for the affection and trust and intimacy we felt for each other, what he wanted might have seemed sordid, but those things, those powerful things, they kept it from feeling like anything but love. It was sweet and nice and soft, even though it was very physical. No talking. Just touching. He didn't want to do much more than see how I'd give tonight. It felt so good to me. Not empowering, really. It was softer than that. More emotional than anything else.

Still moving with purpose, but slowly enough not to jar him from feeling back into thinking, I slipped my fingers between us and undid his belt before I slid off his lap to remove his boots and socks. Instead of just going right for his zipper, I rested my head on his lap, wrapped my arms around his waist and just held him for a moment, stroking his back rhythmically, soothingly. I wanted to be sure he understood that it was my desire to give him both softness and heat.

When I lifted my head, our eyes met and I could hear his words in my mind as clearly as if he'd spoken them. He was wondering why he didn't feel the least bit guilty about this. It was unlike him to be so passive, but every man has a moment when he just needs a woman who understands him and is willing to do for him when he can't do for himself. He shouldn't feel any guilt. Everything I share with him, I offer freely. Still, I know he wants more than to just be soothed gently. He wants the heat, too, wants the fire to burn away all the shadows hovering in his mind tonight.

I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't just want it. He needs it. But for all that, I'm aware I can't go too fast, can't be too direct. I don't want it to feel too impersonal, so instead of going right for his zipper, I stroke his face. I press my forehead to his and touch him softly. Run my hands down his neck and sides to his knees and then back up the insides of his thighs to where he's hard for me. I don't tease. I simply open his pants, holding his gaze. He lifts his hips, letting me strip the worn denim off until he's naked before me.

I don't make him wait. I know he needs too much tonight for me to do that to him. I wouldn't ever tease him or make him wait. Not with him so close to the edge. He is so hard. I kiss the tip and then open my mouth and take as much of him as I can. I feel his fingers stroke my head and trail through my hair. I know this isn't what he wants. I see it in his eyes. I see the shadows there, too. He needs to be inside me. Now.

I pull away after only a moment and move up his body with purpose. I want him here, in the chair, just like this. Relaxed, with me in a position to keep on driving this train. The precious seconds I used tasting him were partly selfish, but partly not. I like the way he tastes, but he's a big man and I wanted to be sure he was wet enough to slide in deep on the first thrust. I leave my skirt on and move over him, feeling his hands come up to play with the hem. His knuckles are soft against my hips.

I don't tease. I don't slick his tip. I just move over him, cradling him in my palm to guide his entry as I slowly sink down and take him deep. So deep this way. It's almost too much. I barely move at first, only rocking gently. Nothing wild... just wrapping him up tight. His mouth opens in a pant but he makes no sound as my body softens and gives way to his, cradling him in a warm, soft embrace.

Comfort sex. It has a rhythm and a feeling all its own. Still moving gently, I kiss his neck and jaw but not his lips. I don't want him to distract him from the tight, wet feel of my body or for him to feel he needs to offer me anything in return. I just want him to lay back and lose himself in sensation. I also want to have my lips free to be at his ear as I move more purposefully against him. With a slow roll of my hips, I let my words come, whispering how much I love him, speaking softly on purpose so it won't disturb the delicate rhythm between us.

His eyes close so he can stay soft with this moment, to hold on to it as long as he can. I speak again, just the barest whisper, telling him all the things women tell men in these most intimate moments. Telling him how good he feels to me. How much I love him. That he feels so good inside me. That he's a good man. So brave and strong and honorable.

He needs that too, I know. Needs to hear the words. I don't stop moving and I don't stop saying it... words and feelings panted so soft against his ear. He doesn't talk. I don't want him to. I just want him to listen. I want to fill him up with good things, good feelings. To surround him with love, with my body and my words and my heart against his.

There is wonder in his eyes. Gratitude. Tenderness. He's finding the way back. Feeling like he's getting back to himself. My hands tighten on him. I'm still whispering to him. Telling him how much I admire him, respect him. How he makes me laugh. How he makes me think. How he makes me feel inside. How he's such a good lover. How he makes me come so hard. How when I come for him tonight, he'll feel it; feel me tightening up around him. How I'll be unable to say anything but his name in those moments, whispered over and over in his ear, so soft.

My words are having an effect. I can tell it's that moment he reclaims his sense of self. His hands are suddenly more possessive on my hips but he doesn't interfere. He just reacts a bit more. He still wants me to do this for him. He still has need.

I want to share more. I want to give instead of take. He always gives me so much when we're intimate. I want to be able to give him just as much. I never stop moving on him. I want to make him feel good; to release all the tension in him— in his head and in his body. He needs it so much. He needs to come soft and I desperately hope the Wolverine can be silent long enough to give him that. It's in every movement between us. In every stroke of my hands as I touch his face and neck, holding him to me and moving so gently. Not grinding wildly on him, just rocking my hips as I rock him in my arms.

His hands have slipped up the smooth skin of my back. Gentle. Caressing. I smile against his neck. His hands are warm and steady on my flesh. They make me feel safe. I can feel his lips resting against my throat now. Feel the moist warmth of his breath. I whisper in his ear, tell him how he makes me feel. Safe. Loved. I know it's an echo of his feelings in this moment and all he can do is sigh because it's like I'm reading his mind. Giving voice to the things he can't say tonight.

For long minutes, I embrace him this way, wrapped up safe inside me. A touch designed more to comfort than to arouse, but I've been intimate with him enough times to know we've passed the point where he's working towards orgasm and in that place where he's holding it back. I've purposefully drawn this out so afterwards he'll be too tired to think, too tired to do anything but relax into blissful, mindless lethargy.

In those most precious moments, I tell him the things in my secret heart, love words and sex words, too. Tell him that I want to wrap him up inside me, safe and warm. That I want to feel him come. That I'm not going to let him go. That I'm going to hold him deep into the night, long after he's taken what he needs.

My words trigger something in him and for the first time tonight, he talks to me. "Will you come for me?" Saying it slow, like he's almost afraid of the answer. Like he doesn't imagine I'm getting as much out of this as he is. His words are husky and low, spoken against my throat and infused with so much emotion I feel tears well up in my eyes. I don't know if he needs me to come for him to make him feel like a man, or because he wants my surrender, or because he feels too vulnerable being alone in such naked intimacy. Someday, if I'm lucky, I'll know him well enough to understand him in total silence but for now, we still need a few words.

I nod and whisper a soft, "Yes." There was more in his words than that one simple question, however. I knew he wanted to know how it would feel for me to come this way with him. I answer his unspoken request, tell him how good it'll be for me like that... so gentle and sweet and soft, like waves on the sand. And how I love the wet heat of him spilling inside me.

His breath, warm on my throat again as he buries his face against me. "God... that's so fuckin' sexy..." I know they'll be the last words he shares with me in this moment.

My inner voice is speaking again. Telling me he needs to hear me tell him when to come. To whisper it in his ear. I almost don't want to, afraid that I'll make him feel pressured when that's the last thing I want to do. But then I think how it makes me feel when he says it to me, how it makes me feel so free... and I know then I'll say it to him. Soon. I'm gonna come in the next few rocks of my hips, and I want us to come together.

Men and women can give each other so much pleasure, but it's such a rare thing to truly come together. Exactly together. It happens often in books and movies but so rarely in the real world... except in magical moments, like the one we're sharing now.

I can feel it starting inside me. I'm beginning to slip over the edge. Rocking so soft against him now, our hearts beating together as I bring my lips to his ear one last time and whisper, "Come for me..." I feel his lashes flutter against my throat as he closes his eyes and goes utterly still under me. "With me..." His hands tighten on my shoulders. "With me..." Whispered so, so soft... "Come now..." He takes in a shaky breath and presses his mouth tighter to my neck. It's happening and in that moment, I'm unable to speak any word except his name. I murmur it against his ear each time I feel his cock pulse inside me and my body contract around his in response, squeezing him so sweetly in flawless synchronicity.

Pulse, contract. Pulse, contract. Pulse, contract.

It felt like it was happening in slow motion. Like it took so long. And you simply can't imagine the physical sensation that accompanied it. It wasn't wild or violent. It was this slow, intense feeling that washed over us in waves. Like drowning in emotion.

I finally stilled my hips when I felt the last of the pulses inside me subside, but I didn't stop rocking him with my arms, soothing him, gentling him with that motion instinctively. We rock babies when they're born and loved ones in their last moments, as much to soothe their passage as to ease our pain. We rock each other in grief, in passion, in comfort, in love. It is so basic. Touch. Motion. A feeling of love and softness and acceptance.

His words, smoky soft against my sweaty skin, telling me how good it feels. I smile but don't cease the gentle rhythmic motion as I tell him it can only be as good as the person you're with. That it's more a reflection of that than anything. Contented, I sigh in his ear as I rest my head on his shoulder and feel his heart beating fast against mine.

"I like your reflection." His comment catches me off guard. "In the glass..."

"Do you?"

There's a touch of amusement in his voice now. "You gotta be kiddin' me. Look at yourself." I know it isn't the only reflection he means, but I turn my head and look over my shoulder at our reflection in the tempered glass of the office window.

"I see a woman's head tucked under her lover's chin and her body wrapped around his."

Soft words from him now, with no amusement. "I see home."

I blush, of course. Taking compliments from him is difficult enough with my clothes on. With him still inside me this way, it makes my face heat even as it makes the space around my heart feel warm and tingly. His fingers creep up and trace over my blushing skin because he likes to see it color for him. I know he does. It's the thing that tells him I'm not jaded. That all the reactions I gave him tonight were genuine. I'm not skilled enough in the game of love to respond with any artifice. My feelings for him are very real and very intense and in moments like these, I wear them on my sleeve. He makes me feel both shy and powerfully feminine at the same time. It's bound to cause a blush but it's certainly not going to stop me from loving him any way we need.

I feel him gather himself under me, preparing to stand and carry me to the bathroom to clean us up before we go, but I stop him with a gentle word and my small hand in the center of his wide chest. In some ways, it's the hardest moment of the night for me. I led us without interference from him, but this is the first time I've deliberately gone against his wishes. It feels to me like he's regained enough of himself that he wants to take care of me, to show me he can still do that.

I don't need him to. There was never a moment I doubted in his ability. The simple truth is he doesn't need to be carried any longer. He can walk on his own now, he's strong enough to lead us both... but I'd listened to that little voice inside me all night and it hadn't been wrong yet... and right now, it's telling me to look after him a little bit longer. All our walls are down. He won't be this vulnerable with me again for a long time and I intend to give him as large a measure of solace as he can take, a little something extra to hold him over the next time he lay alone brooding in the dark.

Instead of an impersonal washcloth, I move to my knees and clean him gently with my mouth and then redress him, almost as if I were dressing a child. He lets me, watching me all the while with those eyes of his that miss nothing. I pour him another drink and he sips it while I dress myself.

In the dim light of the office, I hear rather than see him. "You gonna take me home? Tuck me in?"

"Yes." My answer is immediate. I never want him to think for one moment that I don't intended to pass this night with him. I nod to the drink. I've given it to him for a reason. I told him I want to take a cab so I don't have to stop holding him all the way home. That I'm not going to let him go until the morning, maybe not even then.

He smiles then, the first one all night, and stands to embrace me, telling me in a soft whisper that I was just what he needed. I smile and whisper back that he's what I need too, in whatever way that need surfaces between us. That I learn new things about us every time and how I am so thankful for that.

"You..." he pauses then and it makes me smile. It's not often he's without words. A sigh of utter contentment escapes from him and then words rich with emotion and infused with peace. "... no wonder I love ya like I do."

I whisper that I love him too. Deeply. Truly. More than all things. And then instead of running, I take him home and tuck us both in.

 

**~ooOoo~**

 

_Rest easy, soldier. I hope your dreams are sweet._

 

* * *

Feedback is love. :)

Up next: No freaking clue. I'm not sure what my WolverineMuse is going to demand I finish next. Possibilities include:

**Burn It Down  
** _What has been seen cannot be unseen. In response, the Wolverine makes the Rogue an unexpected offer. Her choice is unorthodox, and the addictive results quickly blaze out of control. W/R_

**Sanctuary  
** _A girl alone on a snowy road needs a ride. She offers up the only thing she has of value to trade: herself. An alternative look at how Rogue's first meeting with the Wolverine might have gone if she'd had to talk her way into his truck instead of hiding in his trailer. W/R AU (4 chapters? 5? 6? [whimper])_

For those of you who wanted to read ' _Winter_ ' (Logan's favorite story of Marie's in _Shine_ ) this one is damn close. I didn't do it on purpose, but I realized after that it pretty much hit the mark.

**Walk the Line  
** _Marie comes back after taking the Cure. "She'd always defend him though, even now – powerless and helpless, and they both knew it. It didn't even need saying. The care of this beautiful man was written in her bones." 9 chapters (at least 4 more to go)_

And yes, I'm still trying to make the last few chapters of _Shine_ happen. Sorry. Clearly there's no making my WolverineMuse do anything until he's damn good and ready. (Bastard!) After that, I intend to attempt to dig into _Holding Ground II_ , provided a certain growly feral cooperates...


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